


Center Stage

by gabrielstolethetardis



Series: Destiel One-Shots [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean plays guitar in a famous rock back and Castiel’s a front-row fan that catches his eye</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Center Stage

The lights pulsed in time with the music, which currently shook the walls of the concert hall with deep, vibrating bass lines and the constant beat of the bass drum. Dean’s guitar solo layered above the rhythmic comping, his fingers dancing over the neck as easily as breathing, as mindlessly as his heart pumping blood. He sauntered closer to the edge of the stage, dipping his head and pulling his left hand in closer to the body of the guitar, sending his solo screaming into the stratosphere. Everywhere, all around him, the screams of fans—male and female alike, young and old, from all backgrounds and tracks of life—echoed in his ears, rivaling the music in loudness and intensity.

Dean just grinned and amped up the solo, adding in rapid tremolo picking and eventually right-hand tapping, all the while drawing closer and closer to the edge of the stage. He saw frantic hands dart over the edge of the stage, grasping and grabbing at thin air, as if they could somehow become closer to the band and the music if they could just reach an inch further. Dean didn’t mind; he lived for the thrill of the crowd, soaking in the light and the noise and the exhilaration of performance. Sam, Charlie, Kevin, Jo—he knew they all felt the same. He’d known it since high school, when they first started fooling around in Charlie’s garage, just covers at first and then originals, mostly composed by Kevin. The guitar, though—that was all Dean. He lived and breathed guitar, had since he was six years old and started on a tiny, cheap acoustic his mom picked up at a garage sale. From there, it escalated quickly until, before he knew it, Dean was here, standing on stage in the Rogers Arena in Vancouver, Canada, and staring out at thousands of people who were there for _him_ , for his band. It felt more than good; it felt _exhilarating_.

Dean wrapped up his solo with a long slide, stepping back slightly from the stage’s edge and picking up his lead part again while Jo started in on the final chorus, singing half to the microphone and half to the crowd. He took the moment to look at the fans, to see each of their individual faces staring up at him and grinning like it was the best day of their lives. Hell, maybe it was for some of them.

As Dean made his way to the other side of the stage, preparing for the end of the song, he noticed someone in the crowd, a few rows back from the strip of fans pressed against the stage. It was hard to tell, with all the flashing lights and shadows, but Dean thought he saw a pair of deep blue eyes meet his; he paused in his movement and drew closer to the edge, not taking his eyes off of the blue ones.

Dean didn’t know what it was, exactly, that drew him in; nor did he understand why, when the song ended, he withdrew a VIP pass from the small stash he kept in his pockets just in case, nodded at the fan, and tossed the pass at him. It was a small miracle that the pass ended up in the man’s waiting hands and not the frantically grabbing others that surrounded him suddenly, like buzzards on fresh roadkill. Dean gave the fan a small smile before regrouping with the rest of his band, and the rest of their set list passed in a blur of light and sound.

As soon as they finished their last song, the stage lights cut out, leaving them in darkness. Charlie grabbed her stick bag from the edge of the floor tom, Sam, Dean, and Kevin unplugged their quarter-inch cables, and Jo—having already customarily dropped the mic just before the lights blacked out—turned and joined them as they exited stage right. After packing everything into its respective case and handing the instruments off to their equipment managers, the five of them started towards the VIP lounge, laughing together despite their exhaustion.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said, drawing up beside Dean and sending him an inquisitive glance. “What was up with that fan you gave a VIP pass to? She cute or something?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. There was just something about him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Something about him?’ Dean, you _never_ give away your VIP passes—at least, not to people who aren’t sporting serious cleavage.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. “Listen, it was an intense moment and I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”

“No, Dean, I’m happy,” Sam protested, giving Dean a wide grin. “So, was he hot, or…?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled. Sam’s grin only widened.

Honestly, Dean’s least favorite part of the whole job—besides the business aspect of it—was hanging out in the VIP lounge after the concert. No matter how much he tried to avoid them, one or two overly obsessed fans always managed to catch up to him and cling to him _all night_. Dean loved his fans, he really did, but he could only take so much _touching_.

Tonight, however, Dean was eager to enter the lounge, and the moment they arrived he began to scan the place for blue-eyes, face falling slightly when he didn’t see him milling among the crowd. Sam must have seen, because he patted Dean’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your date will be here. After all, you two had a _moment_.”

“You’re my brother, and I love you, but I will punch you,” Dean threatened.

Sam chuckled. “Want me to grab you a beer?” he asked.

Dean groaned. “God, yes.”

“Um, count me in on that, Sam,” Kevin piped in from behind Dean, and Sam nodded, making his way slowly to the bar through the small crowd of fans.

As soon as he had a beer in his hands, Dean began mingling with the crowd, conversing with men and women who all expressed various degrees of adoration for Dean’s guitar playing. For the most part, he smiled in the right places and offered comments of his own, listening to each fan thoroughly and asking questions about their lives, passions, and reasons for coming to his concert. He truly did enjoy connecting with his fans this way; however, as the night drew on and the blue-eyed man remained absent, Dean felt disappointment begin to pool in the pit of his stomach, to the point where he excused himself and sat in a fairly empty corner of the lounge, his empty beer bottle still clasped in his hand.

He was just considering grabbing himself something stronger—maybe whisky or bourbon—when a deep voice said, “I spent an hour wondering if this thing was a fake before deciding, what the hell—might as well try.”

Dean glanced up to see a man standing in front of him, his blue eyes looking down at Dean curiously. “I guess it was real.”

Dean felt a smile curl the corners of his lips upwards. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“That’s the thing,” the man said, sitting down on the black leather couch next to Dean and flipping the VIP pass over repeatedly in his hands. “Why did you give this to me?”

“What?” Dean asked, flustered. “I don’t- I thought you might want it, and- well, you did want it, right?” He felt his cheeks begin to burn and hoped the dimly lit lounge would hide his blush.

The man laughed. “Relax. Of course I wanted it. I was just curious, that’s all. Thousands of fans, and you gave one to _me_?”

Dean’s mortification was reaching an embarrassing level. “You were different,” he blurted, and then hastily tried to cover up his revelation by adding, “You weren’t screaming or waving your arms about.”

The man shrugged. “I was here with a friend—he’s your biggest fan, by the way. He’d only agree to stay at the hotel if I promised to bring him back your autograph on this.” The man withdrew a CD from the inside of his jacket—one of Dean’s band’s albums, their newest—and extended it towards Dean. “I’m sorry—I’m sure you sign your own name so much it becomes a chore.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Dean assured him, pulling a Sharpie out of his pocket and scrawling his signature on the CD. “I enjoy it, actually.” He handed the CD back to the man, but paused a moment at the man’s perplexed expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” the man said, his face quickly transitioning into an apologetic smile. “Just… I could never do it.”

Dean frowned. “Do what?”

The man gestured absently. “What you do. All the performing and stage presence and fan appreciation—I couldn’t do it. For you to handle all of that stress and still take the time for every fan… it certainly means a lot more than being able to play a few notes.”

Dean didn’t bother telling the man that what he did was more than just ‘a few notes,’ instead extending his hand to the other man. “What’s your name?”

The man took his hand and shook it. “Castiel Novak. Yours?”

Dean laughed. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”

Castiel released Dean’s hand, giving Dean a full smile. “Nice to meet you, Dean.”

They spent the rest of the night talking—just talking, not about the band or music or anything that remotely suggested that Dean had millions of dollars to his name. Dean discovered that Castiel came from a large family of nine just south of Vancouver, that he had just graduated from the Emily Carr University of Art and Design with a bachelor’s degree in graphic design, that he secretly enjoyed listening to old Elvis records when his roommate was out, and that he couldn’t cook to save his life. He tried to memorize each of Castiel’s little quirks and life facts, turning the conversation away from himself time and time again just to delve a little bit more into the life of Castiel Novak.

When Sam approached him and told him that the car was ready, Dean felt as if something had been ripped away from him unexpectedly, leaving an angry red mark and sudden emptiness in its place. “Just a minute, Sam,” he said, waving his brother away impatiently. “I’ll be right there.”

Sam gave him a smirk, to which Dean responded with a powerful glare, before retreating, and Dean glanced back at Castiel, whose blue eyes glanced once at Sam before darting back to Dean. “You should go,” he said, and Dean thought he detected a hint of disappointment in Castiel’s voice. “It was nice talking to you, though.”

Dean stared at Castiel for a moment. Then, he grabbed Castiel’s hand and took his Sharpie out of his pocket, uncapping it with his teeth and scrawling a ten-digit number on the other man’s palm. “There,” he said, recapping the Sharpie and releasing Castiel’s hand with a smile. “That’s my personal number. When you call or text, I’ll get it immediately.”

Castiel stared at the phone number with wide eyes before glancing at Dean, his mouth opening slightly. “I thought that you weren’t supposed to give out your personal numbers.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged, “I guess I’m willing to make an exception.” He gave Castiel one last grin before standing. “Talk to you later, Cas.” Then, he followed Sam out of the lounge.

The next night, his phone buzzed; eagerly, Dean picked it up and opened the new text message.

**I waited more than 12 hours; is that enough to keep me from seeming desperate?**

Dean grinned, typing a message out rapid-fire and sending it just as quickly.

**Depends. Are you?**

A moment passed. Then:

**Depends. If I can’t stop thinking about you, does that count as ‘desperate?’**

Dean’s cheeks felt like they were going to split open.

**Hmm. Cas, we have a problem.**

A longer pause.

**What?**

**I think I’m desperate, too.**


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case any of you were curious (like me) about whether or not Dean and Castiel actually got to see each other again. Hope you enjoy :)

Skype didn’t do Castiel justice, especially not overseas, and not over the span of months. Still, Dean would rather _see_ Castiel, even if just over jerky video chat, than resort to the guesswork of reading emotions over texts.

However, seeing Castiel face-to-face, those blue eyes finally at maximum strength and wide with a mixture of anticipation and excitement— _that_ took the cake, hands down. He didn’t have to worry about spotty Internet connection in Paris, or a lack of adequate charger plugs in London, Rome, and Berlin; Castiel was just _there_ , no questions asked, and when he approached Dean with a huge grin plastered across his face—well, Dean would be damned if he was ever going to give up seeing Castiel in person ever again.

“You’re done with the tour,” Castiel said before he even got within comfortable speaking distance of Dean, his tone colored with relief. “You must be disappointed.”

Dean shrugged. “Oh, it’s not all bad.” His smile brightened, and he could almost feel his eyes fill with embarrassing amounts of giddiness. _Stop being such a love-struck fool,_ he chided himself, trying to keep his next words from sounding overly gushy. “I get to spend more than a few days in the same place, I don’t have to worry about getting stuck in customs… and I do get to see this really cute guy again, so that’s a plus.”

Castiel ducked his head to hide the grin plastered across his face. “When did you turn into a gushy romantic?” He spread his hands wide, his expression turning ridiculously straight-faced. “ ‘Dean Winchester: bringing to the world a new face for hard rock—and it’s a chiseled one.’ Honestly, I don’t think those gossip magazines know anything about you.”

Dean groaned, leaning against his car and rubbing a hand down his “chiseled” chin. “Where did you read that?”

Castiel shrugged. “I got bored. Thought I should do a background check on the guy who kept texting me at 3:30 in the morning.”

“You didn’t have to answer.”

“You didn’t have to give me that VIP pass.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Why was that, again?”

Dean glanced up at Castiel, saw the playful look in his eyes—like Dean hadn’t told him a _thousand_ times why he gave him that pass—and sighed. “Come here.”

Castiel’s forehead creased slightly, a little of the playfulness fading away in lieu of confusion. “What?”

“Come here,” Dean repeated, beckoning Castiel over with a finger. “Trust me.”

Castiel took a few steps forward until he stood within inches of Dean. Dean straightened slowly until their faces were close enough that he could feel the other man’s breath on his lips. He swiveled his head slightly, so his lips were near Castiel’s left ear, and whispered coyly, “Because from the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted to do this.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see the confusion in Castiel’s eyes melt away into lust, and then he closed the gap, pressing his lips to Castiel’s softly, with a tenderness that surely defied the “rough, ragged, manly rock star” that the magazines probably thought he was.

And sure, he was that; but he also knew that kissing Castiel—well, it felt soft, gentle, and pure, like the whitest of whites. And when he pulled back, reaching his hand down and twining his fingers with Castiel’s, he knew that, no matter where he traveled, no matter who he became, he would never give that up.

And luckily for him, Castiel was just crazy enough to follow him to the end.


End file.
